


Swept to Ruin

by saltandbyrne



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Community: spn-masquerade, Grooming, Hand Jobs, M/M, Parent/Child Incest, Pedophilia, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-04
Updated: 2018-10-04
Packaged: 2019-07-24 21:37:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16183664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltandbyrne/pseuds/saltandbyrne
Summary: Written for round 5 of spn_masquerade for the prompt:I want to read about John's first sex lessons to little boy Dean as he starts grooming him. Dean can be as young as you'd like.





	Swept to Ruin

**Author's Note:**

> Dean is 8. Please proceed with caution.

John’s always liked the sound of water.

A rushing creek, a tranquil lake.  The crash of ocean waves and the soft trickle of his Aunt Edith’s backyard stream.  The pitter-patter of rain on the roof of the car, a quiet melody while he’s driving with two boys sleeping in the back.  The thunderstorms that used to shake the eaves of the old house back in Lawrence, and how Mary’d curl up tight next to him in bed when the lightning cracked outside their window.

The soft drip of their motel shower as Dean towels himself dry.

John’s last sip of beer is lukewarm.  He plants the empty bottle on the nightstand, where it can keep its five fellows company.  There was a time he would’ve cared about things like staining rings on the wood, but the days of coasters and decency are long behind him.

Dean’s got his towel around his waist.

“You brush your teeth, buddy?”

Boys aren’t supposed to be beautiful.  John wasn’t beautiful as a boy.  All his childhood pictures have a scowl and eyebrows too thick for anyone under forty. 

“Yes, Daddy.”

Dean’s hair sticks up in damp spikes.  Even the sharp parts of Dean are soft.  Silky hair, fields of dreams in those big green eyes, and those goddamn freckles. 

“You do a good job in the shower?”

“Uh-huh.” 

There’s rules to the universe.  John didn’t appreciate it when he had it, but the military knew what was fucking what about running shit.  Not a minute left untended, dusk till dawn all lined up like ducks in a row.  No empty, rolling nights on midnight pavement, no fire dancing behind the backs of his eyes.

“Yeah? Got everything nice and clean?”

John’s lips are always cracked.  It’s a bad habit, sucking on his bottom lip while he scans the news for fires of unknown origin and shit he can kill with a clean conscience. 

“Of course, I always do,” Dean says, rolling his eyes.  His two front teeth stick out when he smiles.  John scrapes his tongue over a tab of raw skin.

“Come here and let Daddy check.”

John’s killed a lot of bad shit.  Last week, a mother of two little girls out east of Fayetteville had kissed him on the cheek and told him he was a hero.  Dean had been good on that case, held down the fort with Sammy when John had gotten laid up a few days.  His side still aches when he sits himself up from his slump against the headboard.

The bed barely dips under Dean’s weight.  With Sam sleeping in the bed next to them, Dean climbs on quietly.  His towel slips from its neat knot around his waist. 

“You all clean down there?”

Dean has the softest skin.  Through the thick head of his six-pack dinner, John lurches up, wincing.  His hand is big, work-rough and dashboard tanned, callused on his thumbs.  John catches a loose bit of skin between his teeth and tugs.

“Yes,” Dean says softly, dipping his head down. 

“Clean enough to eat?”  Every story needs a big bad wolf.  John huffs and puffs and settles behind Dean’s doublewide legs. 

Dean giggles, a sound for softer times and softer men than John.

“I don’t know,” Dean says, as good with his part of the script as he is with any of John’s orders.  Dean would do him proud in a uniform.

“Better check.”

There’s a ledger, somewhere, that keeps a tally on all our sins.  John is sure of this, sure of it every time he sets some dead motherfucker on fire, every time he wakes up soaked in sweat and smelling smoke.  Every time he drags his tongue up the peachfuzz promise of Dean’s snug little asshole.

He’s not hurting Dean.  People like doing this, he’d known more than a few back in the service.  Hell, Mary had liked it when she was drunk enough.

Dean’s the drowning kind of pure.  For all his fluency with firearms and salt lines, Dean giggles and squirms back against John’s tongue like this is a game they play, like he’s the kind of eight that doesn’t know how to steer the car or cook dinner for his screaming brother.  John ruins it all, of course, working spit into Dean’s hole until it trickles down the smooth line of his balls, wriggling his tongue until Dean flexes open.

He tastes like a penny on the inside.  Newly-minted.

“Did a real good job, Dean.”

John’s cock throbs in his jeans, heavy and suffocated.  With his shoulder barking at him, John slides a hand down to tug his fly open.  Sweet relief. 

“Help Daddy relax a little before bed.”

A hero.  She’d shaken his hand, with tears in her eyes and those two little girls clinging to her legs.  John sinks back against the headboard.

“OK, Daddy.”

Dean slides next to him, a perfect fit under John’s arm.  He’s pinked across his chest and his cheeks, a little sunrise for John to bask in.  His hand disappears under John’s as they both start stroking.  Dean’s little fingers tickle under the head of his dick.

“Teach you how to do this soon.” John buries his face in the No-Tears scent of Dean’s hair, breathing him in deep as he chases the only moment of pleasure he can count on any more. 

Outside, it starts to rain.


End file.
